


Here and Here

by welcome_equivocator



Category: Supernatural, Wuthering Heights (TV), Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Wuthering Heights AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welcome_equivocator/pseuds/welcome_equivocator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam Winchester arrives to visit his brother at the house where they both grew up, he finds a broken man and an untold story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [umbrellawings-md](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=umbrellawings-md), [feycompanion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feycompanion/gifts).



> This began as a dare from a friend, but I found myself actually writing the thing. The narrative structure is mostly based off the book and the Olivier film, but it's also inspired by all of the tv adaptations. The text is partly mine, partly the film, and partly the original source; some parts are directly rewritten from Ms. Bronte while others are entirely my own invention to better serve the reconfigured plot. To that end, there are also some composite characters.  
> So here you are, welcome to my Supernatural Wuthering Heights AU. Enjoy.

It was nearly dark and the weather was worsening steadily when Sam Winchester arrived back at his childhood- home? Was that the correct term? A shudder of apprehension passed through him. He’d been gone a long time and he was unsure as to how his brother would react to his visit. Making his way to the gate, he paused, trying to gather up any happy memories that would shield him from the cold, bleak reality that lay before him. Just then, his thoughts were interrupted by the ferocious barking of dogs, and before Sam could truly process what was happening, they were milling about him, snarling and snapping their jaws.  
“Call off your ungodly dogs!” he yelled over the tumult, barely making out Dean’s shadowy figure in the gathering night.  
Dean called for the dogs and they slunk back behind him. Sam had never recalled Dean liking dogs much, and he still didn’t, it seemed; man and beasts appeared to live in some kind of uneasy truce. Yet they obeyed him.  
“Dean?” Sam stepped closer, trying not to voice his shock over Dean’s haggard appearance, as he stepped forward with a lantern, his face suddenly illuminated.  
“Did you get lost?” Dean asked harshly. “I expected you over three hours ago.”  
“The weather’s been a trial, and, well, I suppose I’m not as familiar with the terrain as I used to be.”  
Dean barked a laugh. “I thought as much. Let’s not stand here talking.” And he was off, shushing the dogs as he passed among them, back towards the house.

 

* * *

 

When Sam entered the house he saw Ellen and Bobby sitting glumly at the table, and after they had exchanged brief greetings, Ellen departed to fetch tea, and the three men sat in an uncomfortable silence.

“I’m afraid you’ll find my hospitality lacking” Dean admitted when Ellen returned from the kitchen, “I’ve had to open the old room for you- you don’t mind do you?  
“No no not at all” Sam was trying to remember the layout of the house, but he was so tired by that point that he’d happily sleep anywhere.  
“Guests are so rare in this house that I hardly know how to receive them” Dean continued. “Even my brother.” He laughed, bitterly. “Bobby, will you see to the upstairs room?”  
Bobby withdrew silently with a sideways glance towards Dean, Ellen departing with him.

The silence returned, as neither Dean nor Sam stirred, both contemplating the wood of the old table. Finally, Sam lifted his head and looked at his brother.

“Dean.”  
“Sam.”  
“So- did you want to talk to me, or was there some other purpose in inviting me up here? It seems strange, after all this time.”  
“Did I invite you?” Dean produced a flask from his pocket and poured its contents into the cup before him. “Yes, I suppose I did. What’s the matter, Sammy, that not enough? Maybe I just wanted to see you.”  
“You haven’t wanted to see me in years, Dean.”  
“I haven’t wanted to see anyone, Sammy. Please don’t take it personally.”  
“Dean-“  
“We can talk tomorrow, Sam. I find I’m very tired, and you must be too. Ah- here’s Bobby, your room must be ready.”

 

* * *

 

After saying their goodnights, Bobby led Sam upstairs, stopping before a room Sam didn’t quite recognize.  
“Sorry for the mess” Bobby said. “Nobody’s slept here for years. Mr. Dean keeps it shut up, but the room you were going to have got damaged.”  
“It is a bit depressing” Sam admitted. “But I’ll be fine. Can you light a fire?”  
Bobby shook his head. “No fire will burn in the grate; chimney’s all blocked up.”  
“Very well. Thanks.”  
Bobby nodded, but he seemed to hang in the doorway, as if there were something more to say.  
“Yes, Bobby?”  
“It’s Mr. Dean. He’s, he’s not been… right. I hope your being here will help him. He needs it.”  
“I’ll do what I can. He certainly seems out of sorts. I can’t say I haven’t been worried. His letters have been infrequent. Infrequent and strange.”  
Bobby nodded gravely. “Thank you for coming. Goodnight.”  
“Goodnight, Bobby.”  
And then Bobby was gone and Sam was left by himself in the cold, inhospitable room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is much longer than the previous, and will probably be about the length of most chapters to follow. Kindly indulge me in keeping in Lockwood’s dream, which has become Sam’s; I found I could not bear to excise it.

After Bobby departed, Sam fastened his door and glanced round for the bed.  The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling coach windows.  Having approached this structure, he looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch, which formed a little closet, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table. The ledge, where Sam placed his candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint.  This writing, however, was nothing but a series of incomprehensible characters. Something about them pulled at the back of Sam’s memory but, as he could not make them out, he turned to the books. Picking up a small volume that had fallen to the side, Sam spread open the injured tome on his knee.  It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the inscription—‘Castiel’ and a date some quarter of a century back.   _Of course,_  Sam thought  _Castiel. This was his room._

He shut the book, and took up another and another, till he had examined all—these were the books Castiel had never allowed him to borrow, and now he understood why.  Castiel’s private library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped, a pen-and-ink commentary—at least the appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left.  Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary. Although sensing that he was perhaps trespassing, nonetheless an intense curiosity kindled within Sam and he began poring over his find, all tiredness forgotten.

“An awful Sunday,” commenced the first paragraph.  “I wish my father were back again.  Uriel is a detestable substitute—his conduct towards both Dean and Sam is atrocious—we are going to rebel—we took our initiatory step this evening.”

Sam could not remember that particular Sunday, but it must have been some time before he had been sent away to school. There followed an account of their plot to escape from Uriel’s sermonizing on a day they were unable to attend church due to the weather, and it seemed to have been at least moderately successful; after throwing some books about, and being locked in the kitchen for their offense, the episode ended with them sneaking out to play on the moors.

As he read, Sam’s memories of childhood began to return, filtering back into his mind through the crumbling pages he scanned, and becoming more and more vivid as he continued to leaf through the volume.

 

* * *

 

The next book Sam took up embarked upon another subject, and as opposed to the satisfaction of rebellion the former narrative had conveyed, Castiel had now become quietly thoughtful.

“How little did I dream that Uriel would ever make us all so wretched” he wrote.  “My head aches from the effort of holding in my opinions around him. How I should like to scream at him and box his ears!  But, poor Dean!  Uriel calls him a vagabond, and won’t let him sit with us, nor eat with us anymore; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders.  He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating Dean too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place. He has sent Sam away to school, and says he will learn his place there better, and that, as he has some amount of intelligence, he might be useful to the family. I think it very unfair of Uriel to discount Dean so, and Dean is certainly pained by Sam’s absence, and though he would never say as much in so many words, I have seen how he worries. I have asked Uriel not to send me to school as well, so that I can watch out for Dean (although, of course, this was not the reason I gave to Uriel), and for once, Uriel has listened to me, as he is glad to spare the expense. He knows I get along well enough with the curate, and have sufficient “intellectual curiosity,” as he says, that I may convey the appearance of having had an appropriate education without him having to pay for it.”

Though intrigued by Castiel’s account of their childhood, the day had begun again to take its toll upon Sam, and as he nodded drowsily over the dim page, his eye wandered from manuscript to print.  He saw a red ornamented title—“Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend Zachariah Adler, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough.”  And while he, half-consciously, worried his brain to guess what Zachariah Adler would make of his subject, he sank back in the bed, and fell asleep. 

 

* * *

 

Sam began to dream, almost before he ceased to be sensible of his locality.  In this dream, the snow lay yards deep in the road, and he was journeying to hear the famous Zachariah Adler preach, from the text—‘Seventy Times Seven;’ Sam had committed the ‘First of the Seventy-First,’ and was to be publicly exposed and excommunicated. He came to the chapel, half-remembered from his childhood walks, and far from the sparse and removed few he recalled, Zachariah had a full and attentive congregation; and he preached the most extraordinary sermon Sam could ever recollect hearing; divided into  _four hundred and ninety_  parts, each fully equal to an ordinary address from the pulpit, and each discussing a separate sin.  Where he searched for them, Sam could not tell.  He had his private manner of interpreting the phrase, and it seemed necessary the brother should sin different sins on every occasion.  They were of the most curious character: odd transgressions that Sam never imagined previously.

Weary of the endless sermon within his dream, Sam tossed fitfully, unable to depart and knowing he was condemned to hear all out: finally, he reached the ‘ _First of the Seventy-First_.’  At that crisis, a sudden inspiration descended on Sam; he was moved to rise and denounce Zachariah Adler as the sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon.

“Sir,” Sam exclaimed, “sitting I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety heads of your discourse.  Seventy times seven times have I attempted to depart—Seventy times seven times have you forced me to resume my seat.  The four hundred and ninety-first is too much.  Fellow-martyrs, have at him!  Drag him down, and crush him to atoms, that the place which knows him may know him no more!”

“ _Thou art the Man_!” cried Zachariah, after a solemn pause.  “Seventy times seven times didst thou gapingly contort thy visage—seventy times seven did I take counsel with my soul—Lo, this is human weakness: this also may be absolved!  The First of the Seventy-First is come.  Brethren, execute upon him the judgment written.  Such honour have all His saints!”

With that concluding word, the whole assembly, exalting their pilgrim’s staves, rushed round Sam in a body, and in the confluence of the multitude, several clubs crossed; blows, aimed at Sam, fell on other sconces.  Presently the whole chapel resounded with rappings and counter rappings: every man’s hand was against his neighbour; and Adler, unwilling to remain idle, poured forth his zeal in a shower of loud taps on the boards of the pulpit, which responded so smartly that, at last, to Sam’s unspeakable relief, they woke him.

 

* * *

 

The tumult, it seemed, had been suggested to him by the rapid way in which the storm outside beat the fir tree’s branches against the window, and Sam, though shaken by the experience of the dream, managed to put it behind him once he had located its source. Despite his exhaustion (for the fitful sleep presided over by the Rev. Zachariah Adler had not been restful), Sam was unable to reclaim any semblance of sleep and, coming to the conclusion that the tapping of the fir tree was to blame, he rose and endeavored to fix the problem. After struggling for a short time with the window-latch, Sam resolved to break the pane and reach through this opening, but as he stretched his arm out towards the branch, his fingers closed instead on the fingers of an ice-cold hand.  The intense horror of his nightmare then came over Sam: he tried to draw back his arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice pleaded, “Let me in—let me in!” 

“Who are you?” Sam asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage himself. 

“Don’t you know me?” it replied, shiveringly “It’s Castiel-- I’m come home: I’d lost my way on the moor!”

As it spoke, Sam discerned, obscurely, a face looking through the window.  Terror made Sam cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, he pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and shook it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, “Let me in!” and maintained its tenacious gripe, driving Sam to the edge of panic, before he managed to calm himself slightly.

“How can I!” he said, when he had recovered his voice.  “Let  _me_  go, if you want me to let you in!” 

The fingers relaxed, and Sam snatched his hand back through the pane, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it. Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward.  Sam tried to jump up; but found he could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, whether from fright or surprise or to warn the thing off, he did not know. His yell, however, brought the sounds of hasty footsteps approached the door; somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous hand, and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed. Sam sat shuddering yet: the intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself. 

“Sam?” said Dean in a half-whisper, “Are you all right?” 

“I had a terrible dream. Owing to the trip, I’m sure.” Sam replied, divided as to whether he should divulge the night’s events in full.  “I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

Dean shook his head. “I should never have put you in this room.”

Sam was still considering whether he should tell Dean what he had seen, when Dean’s next words decided him.

“Sam. Did you  _see_  anything?” Dean asked softly, and there was such a look upon his face that Sam could not deny him the knowledge.

“I never supposed this house was haunted,” Sam began, “But it seems to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“The branch outside.” Sam said gesturing to the broken pane. “I was trying to stop it hitting the window, but when I reached out, well, I thought- I thought an icy hand gripped mine, and would not let it go. And then a voice cried out, asking to be let in.” Sam observed Dean’s rapt attention, as his eyes moved from the bloody pane back to Sam’s face.

“Go on.” Dean whispered, his face pale.

“The voice said it knew me, Dean, and asked why I didn’t remember it.” Sam saw Dean’s knuckles whiten as he clenched his fists, and wondered if he should continue, but he felt he had come too far now to stop. “Dean- the voice- it said- it said it was Castiel.”

With Sam’s utterance of the name, the tension that had been growing in the room dissipated instantly, but in its place crept in an uncomfortable quiet that Sam did not like at all.

“Dean, I’m sure it was nothing, and even if it was- we should not trust such spirits. I would be glad of another room, though, as I’ve broken the window- for which I apologize.”

Dean distractedly waved it off as if it were of no consequence. “It’s all right, Sam. I should never have let you stay here. Go sleep in my room—down the hall to the right—I’ll be with you directly. Here, take the candle.”

“Dean-“

“Go, Sam. Now. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

Sam obeyed, so far as to quit the chamber, for Dean was on the very verge of truly snapping at him; but, orienting himself in the darkness of the hall, he stood still for a moment, and was witness, involuntarily, to what followed.  Dean got on to the bed, and wrenched open the lattice, and as he did so, Sam observed Dean’s face was wet. 

“Come in! Come in, damn you!” he hissed into the night.  “Cas! Why did you speak to him? Speak to me, hear me  _this_  time, Castiel, at last!”

But the spectre Sam had observed showed a spectre’s ordinary caprice: it gave no sign of being; instead the snow and wind whirled wildly through the window, and blew out the light.


	3. Chapter 3

Feeling disturbed at having intruded onto this private scene, Sam withdrew as quickly and quietly as he could to the room that Dean had directed him to, but when the promised two minutes had expired, and a further fifteen beyond that, he became anxious and ventured once again into the hallway. Making his way back to Castiel’s old room, he found it deserted, but for the snow still swirling in through the window and the fir tree continuing its tapping against the panes. With an increasing sense of dread, Sam ventured down the stairs and glancing at the door noticed that it was no longer barred from within. He ran to the door and when he pulled it open he saw a set of footsteps vanishing into the snow of the path.

“Dean!” he called “Dean! Where are you? Come back!”

The sound of his voice had evidently roused the rest of the house, for in no time Bobby, Ellen, and the others were staring out into the storm with him, Bobby grimly shaking his head.

“He’s done this before- just gone off, out into the night.” Ellen said. “He hears a voice calling, and he follows it. We haven’t been able to stop him.”

“But in this weather! I must go after him- look! He hasn’t even taken his coat. “

“It’s no good.”

“He must be mad.” Sam said, marveling. “I mean, of course I was concerned- with what I heard earlier, but-“

“What did you hear?” This time it was Bobby that spoke.

“I thought I heard a voice calling. And- something touched me, something cold and clinging, like an icy hand. And I thought I saw a face… my senses must have become disordered because the falling snow shaped itself into what looked like a phantom, but when I looked again, there was nothing. And after Dean had heard my report, and he supposed me gone, he climbed to the window and called after it.”

“It was Castiel.”

“But it- that’s what it said. That’s what Dean called. I didn’t know what to think. I don't believe life comes back, but-“

 Sam broke off as he perceived the serious looks upon the faces of Bobby and Ellen; although he had not seen them in some time, he had known them for years, and he could not believe that either of them would indulge this fantasy unless there were something to it. Still, it strained the edges of his credulity, and these metaphysical puzzles were distracting him from the problem at hand—that Dean was still out there at the mercy of the storm.

“I have to go after him.” Sam said. “We can’t just leave him out there, and he can’t have gotten far.”

“I’ll go with you.” Bobby offered, and Ellen nodded. “You set up some beacons here, and we’ll see what we can do.”

 

* * *

 

Fortunately, Sam was correct, and Dean had not gotten far before collapsing in the snow some distance from the path. It had still taken them nearly two hours all told, first to beat their way through the storm, and then to drag Dean’s unconscious body back with them, and by the time they returned the rescue party was chilled to the bone. In their absence Ellen had been busy and had hot water and blankets prepared and fires going. With help from those who had not gone out, Ellen got Dean to bed in his room, while those that had changed into dry clothes and gathered in the warmth of kitchen. When Sam had recovered the feeling in his extremities, he immediately made for Dean’s room, where he found Ellen sitting by the bed.

“He’s in a bad way.” She said. “He’s got a fever, and he’s still not conscious.”

“I’ll sit with him.”

“Are you sure you’re all right yourself?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I should be here with him.”

Ellen nodded. “I knew I wouldn’t be able to convince you otherwise. There’s not much we can do for the moment- if the storm lets up enough, we can send someone for Dr. Raphael, but it’s gotten worse, even, since you brought him back.”

“Ellen.”

“Yes?”

“What’s been going on here? Dean’s letters never said much, and you know I haven’t been here since- well, since it was clear he didn’t want me here. And then this sudden invitation? It’s all been very strange.”

“I’m not quite sure where to begin, but I’m glad you’ve come.” She said. “Bobby’s been trying- both of us have- to get him to take an interest in things. You know as well as I do that he’s rich enough to keep this place in far better order than he does, but he seems to like it this way. We manage as best we can, and bear with his moods, but lately they’ve gotten worse.”

“You said he’s done this before—run off like this.”

“Yes, I’m afraid it’s become something of a regular occurrence. But never in such bad weather and not without his coat- ordinarily he just would up and take off at night, either on foot or on horseback, and always the same way- out towards the Crag.”

Sam looked at Ellen, and for the second time that evening images from his childhood flashed through his mind with startling clarity.

 “That was your place, wasn’t it” Ellen continued. “You and Dean and Castiel- when you were young and we couldn’t find you- you’d always be out there, running wild over the moors.”

“It was.” Sam’s throat felt tight and he glanced over at Dean, eyes closed, stirring fitfully on the bed. “Do you remember that so well? Do you remember when we came here?”

“As if it were yesterday” Ellen replied, crossing the room to hold a damp cloth to Dean’s head. “How could I forget?”

“I’d like to hear your side, Ellen, if you don’t mind. I remember very little, especially not before I came here. I remember being cold and hungry, but Dean was always there, and Dean protected me. And I knew my name—Dean always told me I must never forget it, that it was important—that being a Winchester meant something. I don’t know. I think it was his way of honoring our parents—I never knew what became of them, and if he did he never told me.”

Ellen regarded him sympathetically. “I’m afraid that’s between you and your brother.” She said. “But as to how things were here at the time of your arrival- that I can speak to. Castiel must have been about six at the time, and Uriel quite a bit older, perhaps fourteen.  Their father had gone on a business trip that lasted some three days, and when he returned, we were all quite surprised to see two boys with him. He tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out was a tale of his seeing you and Dean starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the streets. Apparently he picked you both up and inquired for your owner, but not a soul knew to whom you belonged, he said; and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take you both home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he would not leave you as he found you.  He told me to wash you both, and give you clean things. Castiel and Uriel, as perhaps you remember, entirely refused to have anything to do with you; and I must confess I was scarcely less troubled by the proceedings. Their father, however, obliged me to take good care of you, and under his direction, I did as he had requested and made you both presentable.

“That was your first introduction to the family. After his initial reluctance, Castiel took to you both quite quickly, but Uriel remained aloof—I don’t think it could have escaped anyone’s notice how much he despised your presence in the house. Where you were naturally quiet, Dean seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment: he would stand Uriel’s blows without shedding a tear; they moved him only to draw in a breath, as if he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. You were much the same when Uriel focused his ire on you, though that was a rarer.  This treatment made their father furious when he discovered Uriel persecuting the poor fatherless children, as he called you; from the very beginning, their father’s actions bred bad feeling in the house as Uriel began to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Dean in particular as a usurper of his parent’s affections and his privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries.”

As Ellen broke off in her story to see to Dean, Sam tried to remember what those first months had been like. He had been so young at the time, but he seemed to remember how he had felt, suddenly transplanted to this strange new place; how he had been frightened and hidden behind Dean. How Dean had borne the brunt of Uriel’s anger, and how their mysterious benefactor had reprimanded Uriel harshly when he caught Uriel tormenting them. And he remembered too how Castiel, incomprehensible as Uriel at first, had come to befriend them and then tried at every turn to shield them from the violence of his brother’s disappointment and frustration.

 

 


End file.
